


hold tight, sweetheart (you'll find a rainbow)

by neon_air



Series: think how i'm right here (ever, ever, ever) [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crying, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Minor Injuries, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Sad boi hours, Short, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, i SWEAR there is comfort in this, its a big heart and it loves pete very much, no beta bc suffering, petey bb just talk to someone, the beginning of it at least!, this is kinda venting, why do i do this to my fave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-04-11 23:35:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19120018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neon_air/pseuds/neon_air
Summary: Peter has never liked violence. Especially when it lives inside him.





	hold tight, sweetheart (you'll find a rainbow)

**Author's Note:**

> i've been dealing with anxiety since second grade and depression since fifth grade. it's something that i still struggle with and one of the ways i cope is through writing. i vent a lot through my writing and this is one of them. i usually dont post this kind of stuff cuz it is personal but i really liked this one so i went with it. my panic attacks and depression are similar to what i describe here, however, i do not dissociate. i have in the past but its not something i struggle with. i noticed that my writing sounded similar to what ive experienced in the past with dissociating so thats why i tagged it but if anyone feels like what ive written is inaccurate to dissociation, TELL ME PLEASE this is personal but i also dont want to alienate anyone with inaccurate writing 
> 
> since this does deal with depression and stuff, i'm leaving a link to a bunch of different hotlines for depression, anxiety, lgbt+ support, abuse, and other things. i know what its like to feel so alone and i just want anyone who needs to hear it to know that i swear to you, you are not alone. you are not the exception to recovery. you will be okay. you are never alone, there is always hope. it's gonna suck and it's gonna be hard, but i swear to you, it does get better, YOU get better. if anyone ever needs to talk, hmu on my tumblr and we can chat :) 
> 
> **  
> HERE'S THE LINK TO ALL THE HOTLINES, TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF BBS ILY
> 
> https://www.depression-test.net/depression-hotlines.html  
> **
> 
> prompt: "Just talk to me. You can't handle this alone." 
> 
> prompt from @reverseblackholeofwords on tumblr
> 
> title from Rainbow by Kesha

Violence had always been something Peter could never avoid. It had cemented itself into his life when he was young and hadn't let go since. 

For a while, when he was younger, Peter thought it was him. Violence was his curse. It was an aura around him that hurt whoever got close enough. It killed or it hurt. It had killed his parents. It had poisoned the kids at school. It even affected May and Ben. They argued more, tensions rose more quickly. His curse hurt everyone in his life. But this wasn't a curse that could be lifted by a kiss from true love or broken by a good witch. It was his burden to carry, whether he wanted to or not, whether he liked it or not. 

When he got older, he was still convinced that he was cursed. But now he came to realize that the violence didn't exist around him. It existed  _in_ him. 

He had discovered it for the first time when he was twelve. 

Bullying could get to a kid, especially if it was consistent enough. Most kids didn't fight back; it just made things worse. Peter was one of those kids. Until then. 

He was just so tired. Tired of the teasing, tired of the pushing, tired of being tired. He could only keep it in for so long. So one day, a Thursday if Peter remembered correctly, it got to be too much. He had been able to feel from the moment he woke up. It was in his chest. It constricted and squeezed, but it also pried. It pushed and clawed from inside. Something was burning, raging within him and it had taken home in his chest. 

He had gone about his day normally until lunch. Some kid whose name Peter didn't remember was yelling at him. Stupid things, really; petty, stupid, childish things. It got to Peter all the same. 

Every word that came from the boy's mouth pushed at Peter's chest. It squeezed and clawed and tore at his chest. It hurt. It was a physical thing. Peter was half convinced that there was actually something in his chest. Once he had pulled back his shirt to see if there were any marks, any scrapes or burns on his chest. 

The boy continued to shout. None of the adults did anything. The kids either watched silently or laughed. 

It was too much. It hurt so bad. He felt like he was suffocating. There was a fire within his chest and it was burning and choking him and it was real but it wasn't but it  _hurt._

Peter hadn't even realized he was standing and moving until his fist connected with the side of the kid's jaw. 

He had been suspended for three days, May and Ben had been disappointed in him, and he had found out how bad his curse was. 

He didn't fight back after that but most kids stopped bullying him. There were still snide comments, small pushes but nothing like it had been before. Peter counted it a win, even with bruised knuckles. 

The oddest thing was, was that Peter didn't _like_ violence. 

He had never liked it. He felt it was unnecessary. Couldn't things be solved without it? 

But he wasn't able to deny that violence lived inside him. It had always lived inside him. First as a curse, then as an aura, then a fire. 

(If you were to ask him when had it hurt the most, and if he answered honestly, he'd tell you that he felt like he was being burnt alive from the inside out when Ben died.) 

 

* * *

 

Becoming Spider-Man was the first time he felt like he could change his curse, like he could tame the fire. 

Sure, being Spider-Man meant beating up criminals and using violence but it was different. It was self-defense and it was protection. It wasn't just fire. It was _power_. He was helping people, he was saving lives. He was in control of the fight, of his actions, of the fire. If people got hurt, it was because he was defending himself or someone else. It wasn't because of his curse. 

It wasn't perfect. Far from it, in fact. But it worked. It was a tiring process, being Spider-Man, trying to be a normal teenager, dealing with the fire, but it worked. 

Most of the time, at least. 

There were days where the tiresome process became exhausting. The exhaustion never left, even on the better days. But on the worse days, there was a fire burning in Peter’s chest and it hurt. It made him gasp for air and grip at his hair and want to break something. The fire settled in his chest and _squeezed_ , and it didn’t let go until Peter did something with it. 

Before becoming Spider-Man, he couldn't do much. Sometimes he would talk with May but it never did much. Most often than not, he'd just let it sit. He'd ignore the burning in his chest. It hurt, truthfully, more than it usually did. It hurt as it wormed its way into his chest, suffocating his lungs with smoke that didn’t really exist. It hurt as it moved up his throat, tightening and tightening and _tightening_ until Peter felt like he was choking. It hurt as it clouded his head, cutting off rational thought and only leaving the ability to panic functioning.

And there were days where the fire in his chest did nothing but hurt. It didn’t burn, there was no spark or burst of emotions. It just hurt. It rocked in his chest and did nothing but sit there and drain energy. Days like that made Peter collapse in on himself and scream until his voice went hoarse. It hurt because it wasn’t real but it was and Peter didn’t know how to say it but it hurt, it hurt, _it hurt._

When he became Spider-Man, he then had an outlet. He could go out into the night and swing around. He could rise into the air and touch the sky before falling. It was flying, it was soaring, it was  _freedom_. He could also fight. He could give and gain bruises, he could damper the fire, he could control it. 

It wasn't until he got closer to one Tony Stark that he found another outlet. 

Tony had given him a chance. A chance to improve, a chance to do good, a chance to help more people than he already was. He had given Peter a chance to learn and grow. He had given Peter a lot and Peter would forever be grateful. 

But for as much as Tony had given him, for as close as they had gotten, there were still things Peter didn't tell Tony. It wasn't that he didn't trust Tony. He did, he trusted Tony with his life. It was habit more than anything. 

Tony didn't know about the fire in his chest. Peter suspected that Tony had some idea about it; he had never been good at keeping secrets. But if Tony knew anything, he hadn't said anything yet. That was fine. Peter didn't know what he'd say if Tony did bring it up. 

But with all Tony had given him, he gave Peter a place to vent. 

 _The training rooms are always open_ , Tony had told him in the beginning. Before they were close.  _If you ever wanna swing by, the doors are never locked. Or, well, they are but they'll open for you._ Peter knew that it had been Tony's way of reaching out, of testing the waters of their relationship early on.

Peter hadn't taken advantage of it much, maybe popping in once a month or so. He spent more time in the labs with Tony (and later Bruce). But there were nights where the fire was too much. Talking with May didn't work, sitting with it didn't work, going out as Spider-Man didn't work. So he went to the training rooms. If someone was already in there, he'd leave. He didn't want to disturb anyone nor did he want anyone to watch him.

If no one was there, though, he'd go in and have at it with a punching bag. There was something calming about the repetitive motions. Find the mark, hit it, breathe, repeat. It pacified the fire like nothing else. 

It wasn't healthy, Peter knew that, but it worked better than anything else. So what if he went home with bruised, bloodied knuckles? So what if he lost himself in the rhythm of breaking the punching bags? So what if he cracked the bones in his hand while in his trance? So what? 

 

* * *

 

Peter didn't know it would end up being a bad day. He can't always tell from the moment he wakes up. Sometimes, the fire started as nothing more than a spark, a chance, a potential outcome. 

The spark didn't always catch. It could flicker out.

The spark sometimes stoked itself into something more. An ember, a flicker of a flame. Something small but warm. A warning. 

The spark sometimes burst to life. It found the closest thing to hold onto and exploded. It roared and blistered. It burned Peter from the center, all the way out to the tips of his fingers. 

That day, all three happened. First, around lunchtime, a spark appeared and sputtered out. Then closer to the end of the day, it was a flame, flickering, withering persistent in the wind. By the time Peter was heading home from school, it had burst to life. Spreading from his chest to his fingers, it burned and clawed and choked. 

When he got home, around four due to decathlon practice, the fire crawled under his skin, searing in his veins. He was home before May thankfully. he didn't want to talk. He didn't want to do anything. He sent a quick text to Tony and Happy, telling them both that he wouldn't be out for patrol tonight because to homework.

He didn't bother waiting for a response. 

He changed his clothes, collapsed into bed, and begged his mind to just let him sleep. 

Begging has never gotten him anywhere. Why did he think it would now? 

He woke up about five hours later, sweating, shaking, crying from a nightmare. 

He didn't want to talk, he didn't want to sit, he didn't want to go on patrol. Instead, he donned the suit and mask, not bothering to change out of the clothes he slept in and swung over to the compound. 

He didn't remember the journey to the compound, too far into his head to be present for anything more than swinging and making sure he didn't fall. 

He hadn’t bothered wrapping his hands, knowing that the cuts and breaks would fix themselves eventually. He just went at it, punch after punch after punch. He found himself being grateful for Tony, who had gone out and made some reinforced material that was less susceptible to breaking. Peter didn’t know the details. He didn’t care about them either, at least not right now. He just went at it, focusing on nothing but the rhythm he had going.

He didn’t think about his day or about not going on patrol. He didn’t think about his nightmare or the lingering panic. He didn’t think about how the day had started out or the ache in his bones that hadn’t gone away since God knows when. He especially didn’t think about the way he could feel his knuckles splitting open and breaking with the force of which he was punching. 

He fell into the hypnotic rhythm of self-destruction. Not that he'd ever call it that. There were some truths he wasn't ready to face. 

He just found the mark, hit it, breathed. 

Found the mark, hit it, breathed. 

Found it, hit, breathed. 

Found, hit, breathed. 

Found, hit, breathed. 

Found. Hit. Breathed. 

Found. Hit. Breathed. 

Found. 

Hit. 

Breathed. 

Found.

Hit. 

Breathed. 

"-id?"  

Found. 

Hit-

"-ter?" 

Stuttered. 

_Find the rhythm again. Nothing else matters._

Found. 

Hit. 

Breathed. 

"-eter!" 

Stutter-

_Stop. Nothing else matters. Stay in your head. It's calm and quiet. You can't be hurt here._

Found. 

Hit. 

Breathed-

_"Peter!"_

Choked. 

Peter was violently pulled back to the present. 

The next punch he threw was sloppy, completely missed its mark. He stumbled forward slightly, bracing himself on the bag. 

He panted, surprised by how out of breath he was. Had he been breathing at all? Had he listened to himself, had he listened to the rhythm? Had he held his breath? Why? 

"Peter, kid, hey, are you with me?" 

He wasn't panting, he suddenly knew, but hyperventilating. His lungs weren't working. It felt like an old asthma attack. 

"Hey, Peter, I need you to breathe with me, okay?" 

Could he breathe? He was, technically. But it was all wrong. Everything was all wrong. 

"C'mon, Peter, do it with me, yeah? In for four seconds through your nose, hold for seven, out for eight through your mouth." 

That... was okay. Yes, that was okay. It seemed easy. 

He could do that. 

He tried to breathe in for a whole four seconds. It hurt his lungs. Was he having an asthma attack? He hadn't had one since the spider bite. 

He choked on the air. 

He was suffocating. 

"Peter, hey, bambino, it's okay, I've got you. You need to breathe for me, okay? In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. You can do it, bambino, I know you can." 

Could he do it? He was suffocating. The fire-it was big and bright and loud and  _angry_ -it was feeding him smoke. He was choking, he couldn't breathe. 

"Peter,  _please._ " 

There was a hand on his shoulder. One on his back too. 

Now he was violently thrown back into his own body. He hadn't realized he wasn't fully there. 

He was in the training room. It was beige. There was a red punching bag in front of him. 

Or was it red? It looked mostly brown to him when he glanced down but there was red right in front of him. 

His hands were right in front of him too, bracing himself against the bag. His hands were red too. 

Blood. That's what the red was. 

"Peter, you here?" 

His eyes danced to his right. 

He could see feet, legs, and half of a torso. The rest was obscured by his arm by his face.

It was Tony. Of course, it was Tony. Who else would it be? Who else, other than May, would be that gentle with him? 

He was supposed to be breathing, right? 

In for four seconds, right?

He could do that. He had a body again. He could see. He could feel. He could do that. 

He sucked in a shallow breath for four seconds. 

"Hey! There we go, Pete. It's okay, I've got you. That's great, you're doing great, buddy. Now just hold it for seven seconds. I'll do it with you, okay?" 

Tony tapped Peter's back with his ring finger seven times. One for each second. 

"That's fantastic, Peter. You're doing great. Now let out for eight, okay? Nice and easy, slowly. Out through your mouth." 

One tap for each second. 

It hurt to breathe. It burned his lungs. It hurt so bad. Why did it have to hurt so much? 

He forced out the rest of the breath and sucked in another, desperately, recklessly. He didn't bother with Tony's calm rhythm. 

Rhythm only mattered if it kept him focused, if it kept him from falling apart. This just hurt. 

"Hey, no, no, Peter, I've got you. You gotta breathe, kid, it's okay." 

Peter found himself blinking, over and over and over again. His vision was blurry. His cheeks felt wet. He was crying. Huh. 

"I've got you, Peter, I've got you. You gotta breathe. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere." 

Tony was staying. People didn't just stay, not with Peter. His parents didn't, Ben didn't, friends didn't. People didn't stay. 

But Tony said he would. And May stayed. So did Ned. MJ too if Peter thought into it. They had stayed. 

He could breathe for them. They stayed after all. People didn't just stay; they wanted something out of it. Tony wanted him to breathe. Peter could breathe for him, he could do that. 

In for four seconds. 

"You've got it, Pete. In for four, just like that nice and slow. It's okay. Okay, now hold for seven. I've got you, it's okay. You're doing great. Now out for eight. Hm, exactly, you've got it, okay? Right, let's do it again, yeah? In for four-" tap, tap, tap, tap, "-hold for seven-" tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, "-and out for eight." Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. 

Peter wouldn't have been able to tell anyone how long they stayed there, just breathing. It didn't hurt as much anymore. He wasn't hyperventilating. 

He didn't start paying attention to time until his knees gave out. He hadn't realized how tired he was until he felt his weight pitch forward. His arms fell from the bag to his sides and his head hung low. 

He heard Tony yelp before the hands on his back and shoulder lurch to grab him. He was settled on the ground, leaning against Tony's chest with his legs underneath him.

"We're okay, Peter. I've got you. We're at the compound, it's, like, nine-thirty or something. I dunno, but we're okay. I promise you, we are okay. I am okay, you are okay, we are okay. I'm right here, okay? I'm right here, bambino. It's gonna be okay." 

Peter was so tired. His eyelids began to droop. He felt like he could barely lift a finger. He wanted to fall asleep for a few days, a week if he could. He wanted to rest. 

Tony seemed to have other ideas. 

He tapped Peter's cheek lightly, again with his ring finger. It was enough to make Peter open his eyes again. "Hang on a sec, Pete," Tony said softly. Everything he had said since he got there had been said softly. "I need to know you're with me, okay? We need to wrap your hands and then you can doze off, okay, kid?" 

Peter opened his mouth to speak but the idea of speaking was tiring. The thought of vibrating his vocal cords to make sounds that could be perceived as a language Tony understood sounded exhausting. Tony apparently realized this. He quickly added, "Just nod for me, okay? If you're with me right now, nod, yeah?" 

Peter could do that. 

He nodded slowly. He could hear the sound of Tony's shirt moving with his head. He really was just nestled against Tony's chest. It was very comfortable. 

"Okay, hey, kiddo. Let's go wrap those hands, yeah?" 

Tony made no move to get up. He was waiting for Peter's response. 

Peter's eyes trailed down to his laps resting in his lap. There were red and blue and purple. Bloodied and bruises. The skin was cracked and bleeding sluggishly. There was blood smeared to the next joints of his fingers and down the back of his hand. The bruises were big and tingling. Peter's finger involuntarily twitched and it made Peter flinch minutely. It hurt. It was a different hurt than in his chest. His hands ached and throbbed. It wasn't as all-consuming, wasn't as overwhelming as the fire. 

Peter nodded again. 

Tony muttered a small 'okay' before moving up onto his knees. Peter tried to follow but his limbs were lead and suddenly it was as though he no longer had enhanced strength. Perhaps there were some things not even superheroes could lift. 

Tony noticed his struggle. "Here, I've got you, kid," Tony murmured, taking Peter's wrist gently. Peter followed mechanically. It was easier with Tony's support. 

They both stood up, Peter a little unsteady on his feet. The room spun. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, humming discontentedly. "It's okay, Peter," Tony muttered, keeping a firm grasp on his wrist and shoulder. "Let's head up to the kitchens, yeah?" 

Peter nodded. They made their way slowly away from the training room. Peter counted the number of tiles verses lines between the tiles he stepped on. He counted how many of those tiles were gray or blue. 

They walked into the kitchens. Tony had him sit on top of the counter near the sink. Peter shivered as Tony moved silently around the kitchen, grabbing the first aid in the cabinet as well as a washcloth to clean Peter's hands.  

Tony continued on without a word. He ran the cloth under the faucet then gestured for Peter to hold out his hand. Peter did so silently. 

The first contact of the cloth on his split knuckles made him hiss in pain. He jerked his hand but forced himself to stay in place. Tony was just helping him, everything was fine. 

"Sorry," Tony said anyway. 

"Not your fault," Peter told him, mumbling. He kept his eyes on the ground. 

Silence fell again. 

"What happened, Peter?" Tony finally asked. He had finished cleaning Peter's left hand and moved on to his right. "Did something go wrong?" 

Peter didn't respond, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He didn't want to talk. It never worked, it never did anything. Each time he finished a sentence, took in a breath to start another, it just stoked the fire. Talking nurtured it. 

"C'mon, Peter," Tony said tiredly. It made Peter feel like shit. Tony should be sleeping or working on something, not worrying about some kid. Tony had better things to do;  _everyone_ had better things to do. Peter was just wasting their time. 

Peter didn't say anything. 

"Don't wanna talk?" Tony said though it was likely he knew the answer already. "Okay. Then I'll talk for you. I came here after a God-awful meeting. It was so boring, I swear, I thought I was going to rip my hair out. Which would not be a good look for me, nor would anyone else appreciated it. But that's beside the point. I got here and was about to head to the labs. I had gotten your text on the way here so I wasn't expecting to see any Spidey news or anything like that. When I finally got here, I was notified by FRIDAY that you were in the training rooms. Which, as I said just a second ago, surprised me because I wasn't expecting to see you around here. But I thought nothing of it and I'm walking down to say hey and then FRIDAY tells me that you appeared to be dissociating."

Peter shrunk into himself, hunching subtly.

"Now, don't tell anyone, but I don't have a lot of knowledge about that. I know what it is vaguely so I thought I'll just go down and bring you back. Not the case apparently. I get there and the first I notice is your hands. Unwrapped, bloody. Bad practice, Petey. I realize that there was more to this than what I thinking... I can admit that I had no idea what I doing. FRIDAY suggested that I try and grab your attention without actually grabbing you. It seemed to work until you started hyperventilating. Now panic attacks, and anxiety attacks for that matter, I'm more familiar with, unfortunately. You seemed far into it. But now we're here, you're not hyperventilating or bleeding. And I'm standing here, finishing up wrapping your left hand and about to apply ointment to the right, wondering how I'm gonna help you. The reason I'm only wondering is that, well, all this, mental illness I mean, is different for everyone. It's different for me than it might be for you. It's different for you than it is for a person in a blue house. So I'm wondering how to help because I... you're a special kid, Pete. And I care, okay? I get it, your head is probably telling you that I don't. But I'm telling you I do, okay? You gotta trust me on that, Peter. I care a lot." 

Silence. Peter's hands were numb. Tony's were shaking. 

"And I wanna help. I don't know what's going on in your head. I have some guesses, but I don't know for sure. I want to know. I want to know what's going on and I want to help. I get what it's like, Pete. To be stuck in your head and looking for an out. My coping mechanism wasn't healthy either. I didn't sleep, I built anything I could think of. I barely ate, I ignored the people I love and their support because I was so wrapped up in my own head. But it's not impossible, Pete, letting them in. It's hard. I know first hand how hard it is... Especially when you've gotten used to relying on yourself. I've been there, I'm  _still there._ I have bad days too. I understand, Peter. I want to help, okay? And you need it, Pete. You need help. And that's not a bad thing, kiddo. It's okay to need help. Lord knows that even I needed it. I needed help big time. And I got help and now I'm getting better. It's a process and it's hard and it sucks a lot of the time but it's worth it, Pete. I promise you it's worth it." 

Both hands were wrapped now. Tony was holding both of them lightly, just enough to apply pressure, to keep Peter present. 

"Just... just talk to me. You can't handle this alone. You  _don't have_ _to_ handle this alone." 

Peter bit down on his cheek. His breathing was unsteady. He felt his eyes begin to sting, vision blurring. 

He sniffed. "I'm tired," he croaked out. He blinked, tears clinging to his eyelashes. 

"Yeah?" Tony murmured.

Peter nodded and suddenly all the words were clogged in his throat, waiting, begging to be let out. He felt like he might be sick if he didn't start letting it all go. "All the time," he rushed out, voice wavering and raspy. "Like, it's all in my bones. I feel like I could just fall through the floor half the time. I just feel heavy and tired. There's... there's something in my chest. It's heavy an-and hot. It's like fire. It burns like it physically hurts. I-I can't do anything about it really. Talking normally doesn't work, it just feeds into the fire. I can't just like, sit with it. It hurts so much. It feels like it's gonna tear me apart from the inside out. It hurts all the time. I usually go out on patrol to ignore it but that doesn't always work. It's easier just to fall into it, y'know? Like, I can just fall into my head and then it doesn't hurt anymore; or at least not as much. It's a rhythm, right? It's just easy to fall into it and just stay there. I don't have to hurt anymore when that happens. An-and it's scary too. I don't like feeling like this. It's so tiring. It hurts. And I don't know what to do with it. It's just-it's violence, y'know? Like I feel like I wanna break something half the time. It just gets bigger and bigger and it's all in my chest. It hurts; there's only so much space to take up before it starts to overflow. I-I don't normally do that, the..." He clenched his hands slightly, aware of Tony's in his. "That." 

He used his shoulder wipe away whatever tears that trailed down his face. "I don't do that. Not usually. I-I hate violence, which is ironic 'cause I literally fight every day. But I don't. I don't like it but I can't really escape it, y'know? Like I feel like it's just-it lives with me. I used to think I was cursed 'cause everyone who got close to me ended up getting hurt or hurting me. Like, my parents are dead, Ben too. And then the kids at school when I was younger, God, they hated me. I dunno why but they did and it was just too much. One time, this kid just wouldn't leave me alone and it was too much and it-the fire or whatever, my chest just hurt and I didn't know how to stop it. I punched the kid, right in the jaw and got suspended for three days. It didn't do anything to help but it made everything stop hurting for at least for a second and I just. I can't escape it and it's so tiring and I don't know what I'm doing. It just hurts and _I'm so tired of hurting_ , Tony. I'm so _fucking_ tired of it." 

Peter felt Tony pull away. Panic flared up in his entire body. Tony was leaving, everyone left, no one ever stayed, he was cursed, he had always been cursed, and always would be-

Tony pulled his hands away from Peter's and pulled him into a hug. 

Peter froze. He wasn't expecting a hug. Tony's arms were around him, holding him tightly. The crown of Peter's head was against Tony's chest. Tony was rubbing small circles on his back with his right hand. "I know, kid," he muttered, "I know it hurts. I understand. I know." 

Peter felt something within him chip away.

"I know how much it hurts, Peter," Tony continued softly. "I know, I get it, kiddo. But I swear to you,  _I promise you_ , it'll stop. It won't go away but it'll stop. For an hour, a day, then a week and then a month. It'll stop. It'll get better, you will get better. It's just gonna take some time, okay? You've got people in your corner; we won't ever leave you behind, okay? You hear me, yeah? We're not going anywhere." 

There was a part of Peter that didn't believe him. That part of him would probably always be there, always whispering to Peter how he wasn't good enough, how everyone would leave him. But Peter trusted Tony; he had always trusted Tony. 

So maybe, just maybe, if Tony said that it would be okay, that he and the others wouldn't leave, then...

Peter brought his arms around Tony, lifting his head to rest his chin on Tony's shoulder. His eyes began to sting again, tears already falling. He took in a shaky breath, hoping Tony wouldn't notice. Of course, Tony noticed anyway. "It's okay, bambino," he whispered. "I've got you. We've got you. Just breathe, okay? That's all you gotta do. Just breathe and let go, Pete." 

Whatever had chipped in Peter now fell away. Peter sucked in a breath and let out a sob. 

"I've got you." 

...then maybe Tony was right. Peter closed his eyes and let go, trusting more than anything that Tony would catch him. 

(Tony had never even considered another option.) 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!
> 
> Check out my tumblr: neon-air


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